Day to day
by rosieth
Summary: A collection of drabbles about John and Sherlock's life as flatmates. Mostly intended to be humourous with a touch of angst. A little slashy occasionally. Enjoy? Perhaps.
1. Chapter 1

_A series of short fics that I've written over the past few days. I'll probably add to this as I write more. I hope you enjoy them. Love Rose.  
Edit: Thanks to the lovely Volitan for britpicking my work. I posted it at around 4am Aus time and it showed. Putting dollars instead of pounds, how silly of you Rose! :)_

_Beautiful, isn't it?  
Thought you didn't care about-  
Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it._

That passing exchange had stayed with John, for weeks after the swimming pool incident. Physically, both John and Sherlock had healed, but the emotional wounds were still unable to stitch themselves back together just beneath the surface. Communication had broken down between them, and whilst Sherlock refused to leave John alone, their time together was almost filled by a barely comfortable silence. So John had been surprised to find himself inviting Sherlock to stargaze on the roof. He had been even more shocked when Sherlock had accepted. Now, they lay under the starry skies of London, reflecting on the last few months. "John." The voice was strangely tentative, not at all the confident assertion that John was used to. "Yes Sherlock?" Two pairs of eyes shifted to meet the other's gaze. Sherlock's mouth opened to speak, but the words seemed to get caught in his throat. "Beautiful, isnt it?' John knew he wasn't talking about the stars. "Thought you didn't care about-" John smiled as Sherlock cut him off mid-sentence. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."

* * *

"Stop looking at me like that."  
Sherlock seemed to be mildly amused by John's sudden outburst.  
"Like what John?"  
He smiled -that- smile, cocking his head to the side in false confusion.  
"No, I am -not- playing those games with you. Just, find something to do."  
There was a twinkle of mischief in Sherlock's eye now.  
"But I have something to do. You are so much fun to read John."  
John exhaled, loudly and exaggerated.  
"If you don't stop, I am going to throw my tea at you."  
Sherlock laughed, a low rumbling noise that filled the room.  
"I thought you said you weren't playing games."  
John was thrown by the comment.  
"What on earth are you talking about?"  
Sherlock was positvely beaming with smug satisfaction now.  
"You wouldn't waste a perfectly good cup of tea on me."  
John signed in resignation as he realised Sherlock was right.

* * *

"We should go on the swings."  
As soon as the words left his mouth, John knew they sounded stupid.  
"The swings? John, why would we go on the swings? Why would -I- go on the swings?  
Sherlock's voice was so heavy with judgement and disapproval. Why had John voiced his thoughts out aloud. Not that it would have mattered. Sherlock could probably have deduced it anyway. After all, he had been throwing glances at the swingset for the past ten minutes or so.  
"I don't know. Because it might be fun, Sherlock?"  
John's voice came out sounding far more sharp and sarcastic than he had intended. He winced internally, wishing bitterly that he had just kept his mouth shut.  
"Fun for a child perhaps. We're adults John. We do adult things for fun."  
John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's superior tone.  
"Really? You wonder why people talk? Besides, your idea of fun is looking at a crime scene. Your idea of a good weekend is chasing after a serial killer. That's not what most adults find fun. Live a little Sherlock. Indulge your inner child."  
Sherlock appeared to find nothing wrong with John's statements, instead focusing on the last sentence.  
"My inner child, John?"  
"Yes Sherlock. You're inner child. You know, the part of you that is still immature and…oh forget it."

"I can go higher than you. Look."  
John bit back an amused laugh as Sherlock's long legs swung back and forth in an effort to gain momentum.  
"You've got a height advantage."  
Sherlock's face was lit by a smile of childish delight and for a moment, John found it hard to believe this was the same man who spent days and nights pouring over details of violent crimes.  
"It doesn't change the fact that I can go higher."  
John couldn't hold back the laughter this time. Honestly, Sherlock was so competitive that he refused to be beaten at anything. Even something he considered to be childish and beneath him, liking swinging on a swingset.  
"I thought that swings were for children."  
Sherlock shrugged as he slowed down to a stop.  
"I could calculate the maximum height of each swing using gravity, acceleration and mass. What child could do that?"  
John shook his head. Trust Sherlock to use something rational like physics to justify doing some emotional like playing on the swings.  
"There would be a few out there."  
Sherlock frowned as he pondered this for a few moments.  
"John, how fast can you make the chains entwine all the way to the top."  
Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock began to twirl his swing about, the chains wrapping together noisily above his head. Whose idea was it to play on the swings again?

* * *

"What is this?"  
John sighed, looking up from his newspaper to see Sherlock standing in the door of the kitchen holding a box of teabags.  
"It's tea Sherlock."  
A frown passed over his flatmate's face.  
"Yes, I can see that. But it isn't the usual tea."  
Honestly, John thought to himself, sometimes Sherlock can be incredibly slow.  
"No, it isn't. Well done. It's green tea Sherlock."  
The other man wrinkled up his nose in distaste.  
"Why do we have green tea?"  
John couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes.  
"Because sometimes I like a bit of a change from Earl Grey."  
"Hmmmph."  
With an exclamation of disapproval, he tossed the box of his head, where it landed with a soft thud in the corner of the kitchen.

"Hey, that was -my- tea!"  
Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.  
"And I have no use for it."  
John found himself on his feet, newspaper scattered on the floor.  
"That doesn't mean you can just throw it about. What if I started throwing things about that I have no use for? Oh look, this laptop. It isn't mine, I don't have a use for it. Maybe I should just throw it on the floor. And this skull. What use could I have for that? Maybe I should throw it across the room. What about this coat? I have no use for it. Should i toss it down the stairs?"  
Concluding his mini rant, John proceeded to march across the room and pick up the coat before moving towards the top of the staircase.  
"No!"  
With a cry of what sounded suspiciously like panic, Sherlock leapt towards him, arm outstretched to grasp at his threatened coat. The two men stood there, at the top of the stairs, staring daggers at the other, with Sherlock clutching possessively at his coat.  
"That was -not- funny. This coat is very expensive. It is tailored. I will not have you throwing it about in some silly revenge attempt. It was just a box of tea."  
A twinge of guilt started to descend over John as he began to feel that he may have over-reacted. But then he thought about all the times that Sherlock had treated his possessions with blatant disreguard for how John might feel about it and the guilt disappeared.

"It wasn't meant to be funny. It was meant to be a lesson."  
Genuine confusion appeared on Sherlock's face. His frown was so adorable. Wait, where did that thought come from?  
"A lesson?"  
Here he was, being slow again. Really, with a mind as fast as Sherlock's, how was it possible to come across so dimly sometimes?  
"Yes, Sherlock. A lesson. You always treat my stuff like it's rubbish and I don't appreciate it. I thought maybe I had to do something a bit more proactive than just voice my frustration. Words never seem to have an impact on you, so I resorted to action."  
Sherlock averted his eyes from John's earnest gaze. Was that a sign of guilt, or shame? From -Sherlock-?  
"I see."  
His voice was so quiet that John barely heard it.  
"Do you really?"  
Sherlock lifted his chin and sought out John's eyes with his own.  
"Yes, I do. You feel that when I mistreat your belongings, I am inadvertently disrespecting you. I should have known better. I apologise."  
John hoped that he hadn't made the weird strangled sound that he thought he had.  
"You -apologise-?"  
A grin broke out on Sherlock's face.  
"You seem surprised."  
Surprised was an understatement. John was sure that his mouth must be hanging open idiotically.  
"I didn't think you were the type to apologise."  
Another nonchalant shrug from Sherlock.  
"I don't usually. But then again, I don't normally have anything to apologise for, nor anyone worth apologising too."  
Oh, bloody hell. What on earth was Sherlock banging on about? Was he actually saying that John was the only person worth apologising to? For fucks sake, this started out as a question about tea. How the fuck did they end up in the hallway with Sherlock flirting whilst apologising? John had no idea what he was meant to say.  
"Apology accepted."  
Oh, that was so smooth. So impressive, you have the best comeback's John.  
"And I'm sorry I tried to throw your coat down the stairs. It's a nice coat. I quite like it. It suits you."  
There was no way that Sherlock could be missing the mental scolding that John was now giving himself thanks to that bit of stupid rambling. -It suits you-. What the hell was that John, what the hell was that? Distract. Somehow, you have to distract him.  
"Tea?"  
Sherlock raised his free hand and clasped John on the shoulder, maintaining eye contact. John could feel himself flushing. Brilliant.  
"Tea would be lovely John."

* * *

Sherlock had been playing the same series of notes for half an hour now. The same repetition of notes, over and over. A.A.A.A.G.G.G.D.D.D.D.F.F.  
"Sherlock, if you don't stop playing that bloody violin, I am going to take a pair of scissors to the strings."  
Sherlock had that look. That smug 'I know something that you don't' look that made John want to strangle him.  
"Just listen John."  
John groaned.  
"Sherlock, I've been listening to the damn thing for half an hour. I'm tired of listening. I have work to do."  
The other man smiled.  
"Have you really? Perhaps you need to listen harder. Not to the melody but to the rhythm."  
Sighing audibly, John turned in his chair to face Sherlock as he continued to play the notes. Listen to the rhythm, not the melody. John closed his eyes to allow himself to focus entirely on the vibrations filling the room. Four A's, three G's, four D's and two F's. Wait, why were the only two F's and three G's when there was four A's and four D's?He must be missing something. He could feel himself frowning as he concentrated even harder on the music. A. A. A. A. G. G. G. D. D…wait. The A's. Why was the first one shorter than the others? And the G's. They had all been long but the D's were all shorter like the first A. He listened as the notes were repeated again and again. Yes, there was a purposeful difference in note length. One of the F's was longer than the other too.  
Then it suddenly hit him. Sherlock was playing him a message in morse code. The A's - dot, dash, dash, dash. That was a J. Next, the G's. Dash, dash, dash. That's an O. The D's, well that was four dots, an H. And the F's…  
"You're playing my name in morse code."  
The music stopped instantly. John opened his eyes and met Sherlock's gaze.  
"You've been playing my name in morse code for half an hour."  
Sherlock smiled, clearly pleased that his little trick had finally been figured out.  
"It is always on my mind John."

* * *

John was surprised to arrive home to find all the lights turned out and the curtains drawn across the windows. The television was conspicously absent from the living room. A strange muffled sound was coming from Sherlock's bedroom.  
"Sherlock?"  
A scrambling noise came from within the room and something sounded like it was scattering across the floor. The door opened slightly and black curly hair poked out through the gap.  
"John. I thought you were working the night shift tonight."  
Something seemed to be a little strange about the situation but John wasn't quite sure what it was.  
"Street was flooded. Clinic is going to closed for a few days while they clear up the water damage. Water main burst. No doubt it's all over the news. They're talking about hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of property damage. Sherlock, have you been crying?"  
Instinctively, the taller man touched his face to see if his cheeks were wet.  
"No. Must be a trick of the light."  
John smirked as he folded his arms in front of him.  
"And that smudge of melted chocolate, and the drip of strawberry icecream on your dressing gown? Is that a trick of the light too?"  
Sherlock avoided meeting John's gaze as though he had just found out some terrible secret.  
"Okay. So I was in my room eating chocolates and strawberry icecream while you were supposed to be working. Is that a problem?"  
John stifled a laugh at Sherlock's defensiveness.  
"No, no problem. Where's the telly?"  
Sherlock's mouth was twitching as though he wasn't sure what to say.  
"It's in my room."  
John raised his eyebrow.  
"It's in your room? Why?"  
"So I could tuck it in and read it a bedtime story. Why do you think it is in there?"  
John moved towards the door but was blocked by Sherlock, who had thrown himself in front of the doorway, the door swinging open to show the telly in the corner, switched off.  
"What the hell are you watching?"  
"Just a film."  
"Why don't you want me to see? You weren't watching -"  
"I wasn't watching porn John."  
"What were you watching then?"  
John tried to dodge under Sherlock's outstretched arm but Sherlock was too quick, seizing John around the waist and very nearly lifting him off his feet. It was too late however, as John had caught a glimpse of a DVD cover.  
"You were watching Ghost? You were watching Ghost, eating chocolate and icecream, and _crying?_"  
Sherlock looked extremely uncomfortable, as he resolutely avoided meeting John's gaze.  
"It's just…it's a silly movie because ghost's don't exist. I wasn't really crying, it's…I…she loses her husband and someone comes to the door and claims that they can communicate with him in the afterlife? It's cruel."  
John smiled. Apparently Sherlock wasn't as sociopathic as he made out to be.  
"Sherlock. Your arm is still around my waist."  
A fit of hysterical laughter overcame John as Sherlock flung himself backwards as though John might burn him if they touched.  
"How about we find something else to watch?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello everyone. This is the next chapter of my little drabbles. I'm sure there will be more after this because my little plot bunnies won't leave me alone. Some of these are a little bit more slashy than last chapter but it is all just implied. I hope you enjoy them. Please, feel free to britpick in the comments! Sometimes my Aussie gets the better of me (as does my sleep deprived brain). Lots of Love, Rose._

"Have you ever eaten a lemon before John?"  
John raised his head, his face glowing from the light of his computer screen. How was he supposed to finish his blog when he was a slow typer and Sherlock was asking stupid questions.  
"No Sherlock. Have you?"  
Sherlock closely examined the lemon he held in his hand, holding it up to the light and casting a shadow across the wall.  
"No. Not yet."  
John watched in vague bewilderment as Sherlock began to peel off the layer of yellow skin from the fruit. Surely he wasn't going to -  
"No, Sherlock, DON'T!"  
Sherlock bit into the pulpy flesh of the fruit before letting out a cry of disgust.  
"Oh. Oh that's horrible. Why on earth does this fruit exist?"  
He was coughing and spluttering, in a futile effort to rid his tongue of the bitter sourness.  
"I told you not to. That's why I've never eaten a lemon."

* * *

"John, what are you doing?"  
John froze immediately, hands in mid air still clutching at the spoons he had been utilising as drumsticks. Slowly, he lowered the cutlery and placed it on the bench before removing his earbuds. ACDC could still be heard faintly in the background.  
"Nothing."  
The comment was met with a frown of disapproval.  
"You can't be doing nothing John. It is impossible. Even in death, you would still be going through the processes of decompostion."  
Sometimes John really wished that Sherlock understood normal social protocol. How hard was it to learn that nothing meant 'I don't want to talk about it'?  
"I was air drumming."  
The frown changed from disapproving to confused.  
"Air drumming?"  
"Yes Sherlock, air drumming. You know, pretending to play the drum part of a song without actually playing it?"  
"Why don't you actually play the drum part?"  
John wasn't really sure how to answer that.  
"Because - then it wouldn't be air drumming. You have to try it to understand."

Mycroft entered 221B Baker Street without knocking. There was never any need. If Sherlock was home he would already know of Mycroft's arrival. Walking up the stairs, Mycroft heard a sound he wasn't used to hearing at his brother's flat. He could hear music. Loud music. Rock music. Reaching the top of the stairs, he felt a smile spread across his face. In front of him was his brother, violin in hand, pretending to play a guitar riff. His flatmate, no, colleague, was thumping the coffee table with a pair of spoons. Neither man seemed to be aware of the new arrival and Mycroft had no plans of announcing his presence. He was going to wait until one of them noticed him and amuse himself watching their embarassment.

* * *

John was nearly asleep on the sofa when Sherlock came in and flopped down next to him.  
"Sherlock, your arm is in my face."  
There was no response from the taller man who now lay sprawled across the sofa. John sighed before grabbing the hand that was brushing against his face and moving it over his head. It slipped down so that it was resting lightly on his shoulder. John sighed. It was 1am and both of them should be in bed asleep, yet here they were, sitting on the sofa.  
"Sherlock. Why aren't you in bed?"  
The response was a low murmur.  
"Why aren't you in bed?"  
Why indeed, John thought to himself.  
"I don't have the energy to climb upstairs to my room."  
John could see the smile forming on Sherlock's face even though he couldn't see it.  
"You're not going to sleep on the sofa. You know how well that worked out when you were with Sarah."  
Surely this wasn't going were John thought it was going.  
"You never answered my question. Why aren't you in bed Sherlock?"  
Was Sherlock laughing now? That low rumbling definitely sounded like a laugh.  
"I couldn't sleep."  
"You couldn't sleep? How old are you Sherlock?"  
"I was lonely."  
Oh, for the love of God. What was John doing here? Why hadn't he just gone upstairs to his own room? Surely he wasn't actually contemplating -  
"Are you asking me to share a bed with you?"  
Suddenly Sherlock had leaped to his feet, a wide grin etched on his face.  
"Finally catching on are we?"  
John sighed as Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom. What was he doing?

* * *

"Why are the duck's looking at us like that?"  
"Because we have bread."  
Sherlock seemed to ponder this.  
"Ducks aren't supposed to eat bread. It's not a part of their natural diet."  
John failed to supressed a grin.  
"Sherlock, these ducks will have been eating bread for their whole lives. To them, bread is everyday food."  
Suddenly, sherlock clutched desperately at John's shoulder.  
"Oh God, there's one right behind me. Get it away, get it away."  
John doubled over with laughter as Sherlock picked up a slice of bread and started to tear huge chunks off and throw it towards the duck. Ducks began to flock towards the fresh supply of food as Sherlock began to panic completely.  
"There's more. They keep coming. How do I get them to go away?"  
Somehow, John managed to splutter an answer.  
"One way would be to stop throwing them bread. They think you're feeding them."

John closed the door of 221B Baker Street and followed Sherlock up the stairs. When they reached the landing, Sherlock whirled around, nearly pinning John to the wall.  
"If you tell anyone about today John, I will never trust you again."  
"You want it kept secret, okay."  
Sherlock nodded and gave an awkward half smile.  
"Good. The last thing I need is my enemies finding out I'm afraid of ducks."

* * *

"Stop tapping your foot."  
"You stop tapping your foot."  
John sighed internally. Sherlock hadn't had a case for six weeks and it showed.  
"I'm not tapping my foot Sherlock. You're hearing yourself."  
"Oh. Well…stop breathing so loudly then."  
It didn't just show, it screamed at John. Sherlock was bored.  
"I can't, I have a cold."  
"You're a doctor, make yourself better."  
Screamed whilst flashing with neon lights.  
"Don't be stupid, you know that isn't how disease works."  
"Don't you be stupid."  
The consulting detective was becoming unbearable in his silly, 'let's see how fast I can upset John' moods.  
"I'm not being stupid, I'm being reasonable. Which is more than can be said for you."  
Sherlock put on a face of exaggeratedly mocked confusion.  
"What does that mean?"  
"What do you think?"  
"You're so immature."  
John glared at his flatmate in disbelief. He shouldn't be rising to the bait, it was exactly what Sherlock wanted. But he couldn't help himself.  
"I'm so immature?"  
Sherlock raised one eyebrow.  
"Amusing you am I Sherlock?"  
Silence. Just a wry smile in response.  
"You are like a little child. Why don't you just lie down on the floor and beat it with your fists because you're bored? Why don't you just throw your usual boredom tantrum?"  
Sherlock made a great show of sighing. Yes Sherlock, you're bored, I can see that.  
"Predictable and dull. Why don't I throw something else?"  
Before John could react Sherlock had picked up a jaffa cake from the tea tray Mrs Hudson had so kindly fetched for them after reminding them that she wasn't their housekeeper.  
"Oh no. No, Sherlock. Put it down."  
The protests were of no avail as Sherlock threw the jaffa cake directly as John's chest as hard as he could. Bits of cake splattered all over John's previously spotless cream sweater. He grimaced as he looked at the spongy remnants of cake started to drop off the sweater and onto his trousers. Looking up, he sought out Sherlock's gaze.  
"What the hell was that?"  
Sherlock grinned mischeviously.  
"It was me throwing something other than a tantrum."  
"Was it then? Right."  
John reached over and picked up a jaffa cake of his own.  
"No John, the coat, let me take off the coat. It's expensive and tailored."  
John didn't hestitate as he lobbed the cake at the taller man. He smiled with satisfaction as it splattered all over Sherlock's right shoulder.  
"I know. You've told me before. But you started this. This sweater has alpaca wool in it. That is expensive wool. This is an expensive jumper, a gift from Harry. Why am I telling you this, you had probably already deduced it. Here, have some more cake."  
This time, the cake pelted Sherlock's hip and sprayed across the desk that he was standing next to.  
"You're laptop seems to have also recieved some of the cake. Would you like some more? Jaffa cakes are -"  
Sherlock's musings were cut short as he was hit in the face by half a croissant.  
"Mrs Hudson is going to murder us John, you do know that."  
John shrugged.  
"She'll just add it to the rent. It'll cost more to get our clothes cleaned."  
"I hope you are prepared to eat cake."  
Sherlock adopted a ridiculous battle pose.  
"Eat it, wear it. Doesn't matter. I am going to destroy you with my croissants."

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"  
John was standing in the bathroom wearing nothing but his underwear.  
"I need to have a shower and get all of these baked goods and cooking ingredients off of me."  
John crossed his arms over his chest self conciously.  
"Yes, but I'm about to hop into the shower."  
Sherlock's expression was vaguely expectant.  
"You aren't seriously thinking that we should have a shower together are you?"  
John watched as Sherlock adopted a defensive stance.  
"Well, why not?"  
John could feel himself flushing and his response came out as an indignant splutter.  
"Why not? Why would we?  
The look Sherlock was giving him suggested that it should be obvious.  
"We share a shower at the gym."  
"Sherlock, everyone shares a shower at the gym. There is no alternative apart from going without one."  
There was a small twitch in the corner of Sherlock's mouth, as though he was trying not to smile.  
"Why are you so against sharing a shower?"  
"Why are you so for it?"  
John had a sudden mental image of water beading over bare skin as two pairs of hands exploring two bodies, two sets of lips locked together as water cascaded down around them.  
"Is that why your against it? Seems pretty positive to me."  
John was sure he must be crimson by now. He glared at Sherlock with all the intensity that he could muster.  
"Stay out of my head Sherlock."  
"The shower will be completely innocent, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die."  
Sherlock was looking at him with puppy dog eyes and a silly little pout that made John want to laugh at the whole situation.  
"Fine. You can get in the shower with me. Let's see how innocent you can keep it."


End file.
